A Perfect Likeness

by Roger Gumbrell

  ‘I have agreed with the suggestion of my superiors who do not believe it necessary to reopen the case. If this woman, or group, did have any involvement in Victoria’s death then I expect to find it during the course of our enquiries. I’m afraid I cannot offer you any more than that at this stage.’

  ‘I had hoped for more. You didn’t find it two years ago so why should now be any different?’

  ‘Michael.’ Trish spoke with anger. ‘That kind of comment doesn’t help at all. I feel like walking out now. For goodness sake, man, people are trying to help you. Do you want it or not?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Lister, Inspector. It really doesn’t look good for me, does it?’ He broke down. ‘I’m finished, I’m finished. I can’t stand any more of this. For two years I’ve suffered. I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill Victoria. We loved each other. Please believe me, Inspector, please help me.’

  ‘That’s enough, Michael,’ said Doctor Ingles. ‘Look we’re all here to help you, so just try and relax and no more flying off the handle. Here, take a sip of water.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. Sorry, all.’

  ‘Michael,’ said Deckman, ‘it’s probably not as bad as I’ve made it sound. We have, thanks to Miss Lister, a great deal of information that could possibly be used to throw an element of doubt over the conviction. I don’t, think, however, there is enough to prove you were innocent and that is what we would like to do. Just be patient and positive. I am sure you won’t have to wait too long before we know the answer.’

  ‘Thank you for being honest with me. I do appreciate it.’ He looked Deckman straight in the eyes. ‘I did not murder my wife, Inspector.’

  ‘Michael, I now accept that you did not do it and please believe me when I tell you I’m sorry you have had to suffer two years of unjust imprisonment, but you are just going to have to be patient for a while longer.’

  *

  Deckman received a round of applause accompanied by ‘yippee’ and ‘hooray’ from his two sons when he poked his head round the door to his living room.

  ‘Thanks, darling, you’ve made the boys, and me, very happy,’ said Jenny as she put her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him firmly on the lips.

  When Richard and Christopher Deckman had been told their father was making a special effort to get home for the party, they persuaded their mother to prepare something really special.

  ‘My gosh, this is more like a party feast. What are we celebrating? Have I forgotten an important occasion?’ asked Deckman.

  ‘Oh, Dad, don’t be silly, we’re celebrating my birthday,’ said Richard. ‘I knew you would get here.’

  ‘We’re celebrating being a family again,’ said the eldest son, Christopher, taking a sideways glance at his father. The sadness in his eyes was clear. ‘You don’t come home to see us any more and we don’t like it.’

  Deckman didn’t speak, he couldn’t. He turned towards his wife looking for whatever comfort she felt able to give. He was hurt and his eyes watered, but he knew it was true. He had become preoccupied with Michael Campbell and his family had taken second place. Something he had assured Jenny he would never allow to happen. He opened his mouth to speak but Jenny quickly pressed two fingers over his lips to stop him. She got up from her chair, stroked the back of his neck and kissed the top of his head.

  ‘Say nothing, darling, leave it to me,’ she whispered and nibbled his ear as she did. ‘Right, gang,’ she clapped her hands to draw attention. ‘As the only female in the household it stands to reason that I must be the boss. And what I have decided to cook for this special tea will be revealed in one moment. And no nonsense. Agreed?’

  She received boos and hisses from the boys, and a loving smile from her husband who was still smarting from the remarks made by son number one. Fortunately neither son was aware of the impact the comments had made on their father.

  ‘As it is his birthday,’ continued Jenny returning from the kitchen carrying two plates, ‘we are going to have Richard’s favourite meal. Sausage, egg and chips. I trust everyone is happy with that?’

  Amid great celebration from her three men, she placed the plates in front of Richard and Christopher who suddenly went quiet. For the first time since their father arrived home.

  ‘Any ketchup, Mum?’ shouted Richard. He looked across at his dad knowing he had missed something important and apologised. ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  ‘ Please , Mum,’ he shouted, even louder.

  Jenny brought in the other two plates, and the bottle of ketchup. ‘This is all a bit special, men, isn’t it?’ she said to the three most important people in her life.

  ‘It is like being a family again isn’t it?’ added Deckman looking at Jenny and the boys and thinking how lucky a man can be.

  The boys didn’t comment. They had already speared their first sausage and were dipping it into the lake of blood-red ketchup spreading itself out over their warm plates.

  ‘This is delicious, Mum,’ commented Richard. ‘Can we have it again, tomorrow… please?’

  They all laughed together… as a family.

  Chapter 17

  Deckman arrived at the office early, having done the right thing by his wife this time and set the alarm. He’d had a bad night, worse than usual by current standards. If the work issues had not been bad enough on their own, the comment by Christopher had blown them and everything else into insignificance. What a father he was turning out to be. His fist smashed down on his desk. ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ he mumbled walking across to his window.

  He had convinced himself Michael Campbell was not guilty of Victoria’s murder and his own personal failure was going to be something he’d have to live with. ‘But why the hell did I tell him I believed that to be the case,’ he argued aloud with himself, ‘especially as there is no real evidence.’ The pressure was getting to Deckman, more than he had felt at any time during his career. He stared down at the beginning of the early morning rush and, for once, wished he was down there with them and not where he was. Sylvia Page had to be involved, of that he was sure. Involved in the deaths of the two unknown women, involved in the death of Victoria Campbell, involved in drug dealing and heaven knows what else. He decided he had to see this woman. He pressed the speed dial on his mobile.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ said a surprised Jenny, ‘you’ve only been gone one hour, are you missing me that much already?’

  ‘Always, Jens. Look, I need to pick you up at 12. 30 for a bite of lunch at the marina. We have a mission. Explain later, bye.’

  DC Kensit knocked. ‘Got your coffee, Sir, and we have had more information from the surveillance boys whenever you are ready.’

  ‘Right now, Bob, it’s what I’m waiting for. Is Colin here yet?’

  ‘Of course I’m here, Guv,’ said Fraser from the outer office, ‘I’m that bad penny you can’t get rid of. Actually, I’d rather be here than with the missus, particularly at eight in the morning when she’s waking up. Not the prettiest of sights.’ He followed Kensit into the office and sat down. ‘Anyway the coffee is much better here. Right, Bob, it’s all yours.’

  ‘Oh, me . I thought… yes, okay, Sarge, I need to get my notes then. Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘What’s it looking like, Colin?’

  ‘Coming on well, Guv, you’ll be pleased.’

  ‘I’m ready now, Sir. Sarge caught me on the hop again, he’s doing it a lot lately.’

  ‘Good training, son, keeps you on your toes. Come on, don’t keep the Inspector waiting.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. Well, Surveillance have logged all movements of the Star Boats’ staff and come up with some pretty good stuff. They have established that Sylvia Page has a total of sixteen women working for her as prostitutes, mainly getting their customers from the four and five star hotels along the coast road. Interestingly all the prostitutes live in the flats owned by Blue Tree Properties. As we know, this is a company owned by the Pages. It would seem Miss Page visits each of the women every day and take
s money from them. A number of photos have been taken but we don’t have those yet. She spends most of her other time with Rawston, on Red Star. Edward Page is a loner. In the office most of the time, but tends to make phone calls from public phone boxes to phone boxes in London. He eats alone during the day and gets home around seven to seven-thirty. Rawston is the worker. Three trips a day in the smaller boat, in between which he ‘relaxes’ aboard Red Star with Miss Page. Spends evenings at the Page’s house but usually sleeps in his own flat. Visitors to the house are non existent except for one man who has been twice since observation began. Appears he’s an accountant and has an office close to Star Boats. We are still checking him out. The drugs side looks better than good. According to our surveillance colleagues, it is much easier to work from the top down than from the street seller up. They now know who the three main distributors are and believe each of those sell on to three second string players. It is still very early days and more checks will be carried out over the coming week or two. They have not been informed of how things are going in respect of the load that went to London. That’s it so far, Sir. I don’t know about you, Sir, but I reckon it’s not that bad for starters?’

  ‘Not bad at all, Bob, but how do you think the information we have so far is going to help Michael Campbell, if it is going to help him?’

  ‘Nothing concrete, Sir, but the sarge and I have been talking and we think the murdered women were prostitutes and probably eastern European. We now know that Sylvia Page controls a number of prostitutes and it is just possible two of them got our Miss Page on a bad day and she decided she would be better off without them. Maybe they wanted out and threatened her in some way. And we have been told the murders could have been carried out by a woman, so why not our lady? She seems to be involved in most things going on around here and I’m thinking she could be a very nasty woman. And, of course, if she did murder these two women, the killings were identical to the slaying of Victoria Campbell, although the weapon was different of course.’

  ‘Inclined to agree with you, Bob, but we still need more.’

  *

  ‘This is all very intriguing, Inspector,’ said Jenny Deckman sliding into the passenger seat next to her husband. ‘What is this mission that is important enough for you to drag me away from the vacuum cleaner and washing machine? I think you had better tell me what all this is about.’

  ‘When I phoned you this morning I had already made up my mind that I must catch sight of this woman who’s causing me so many problems at the moment. We know she, Sylvia Page, is often at the marina over lunch-time when her knight returns from sea. Colin has made a possible connection between the death of Victoria Campbell and the murder of the two women we are struggling to solve. Jens, I should have picked up on this connection, myself, but I’m too preoccupied by the mistake I’ve made over Michael Campbell.’

  ‘Terry, how many times have we spoken about this? You have to accept it otherwise it will haunt you forever. You are not the only one this has happened to and certainly won’t be the last. What you must do is everything possible to right the wrong if there has been one. I think you’re very lucky the bosses are right behind you.’

  ‘I know you are right, Jens, and that is why I’m desperate to catch a glimpse of our lady. If I can see who I am up against it may just help me. I could have asked Colin to accompany me but we make a far nicer couple, don’t you think?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So, are you still prepared to accompany me?’

  ‘After what you have told me, Inspector, I have no hesitation in accepting your kind invitation.’

  They strolled, arm in arm, along the promenade directly overlooking the harbour and stopped at the entrance to the main jetty. Deckman focused his binoculars and made a slow pass from east to west. ‘I’ve found one boat, Jens. The cruiser. Take a look. It’s the largest along the front row.’

  ‘Wow, she is a beauty. Do you think there is the slightest possibility I could find one in my Christmas stocking? If I’m to be allowed one this year.’

  ‘Anything for you, Jens. I’ll place an order before we leave. But why is it a ‘she’?’

  ‘Thought every boat was a ‘she’. Look, Terry.’ Jenny Deckman pointed towards the eastern breakwater. ‘There’s a smaller boat. Looks like it has two people on board.’

  Deckman refocused and watched as the man, he presumed him to be Rawston, skilfully manoeuvred Blue Star into its position next to Red Star. The man helped the lady off the boat and squeezed her close as they kissed. They were oblivious to everything that was going on around them. Only aware of themselves, and another short moment together.

  Deckman observed a while longer before speaking. ‘We’ve got them Jens, it’s them alright.’ He returned the binoculars to his pocket. ‘We wait and watch. Over here. They will have to come out this way and, probably, go towards the car park over there.’ He indicated the direction with a nod of the head. He took a photo of Victoria Campbell from his inside pocket and showed Jenny. She looked and blinked, like her eyes were cameras photographing the evidence. He put the photo back in his pocket.

  ‘They’re coming, Jens. Just relax and appear absorbed in the boats. They seem far too interested in each other to notice that anyone is curious about them, even though they are professionals and should be aware.’ They watched as Rawston placed an arm around Sylvia Page’s shoulder and squeezed her close. They were within touching distance as they walked off the jetty on to the promenade. Deckman took hold of Jenny’s hand and followed as they talked about buying a small boat for the weekends. Sylvia Page looked immaculate in a salmon coloured trouser suit whilst Rawston was in jeans and a dark green polo-shirt with ‘Star Boats’ printed across the back. They paused to embrace and kiss so Deckman guided Jenny to the window of one of the many boat brokers.

  ‘If I wore clothes like that,’ whispered Jens, ‘I wouldn’t let you crumple them up like he is.’

  ‘I love you too.’ Deckman pointed at the ‘Small boat for sale’ advert pinned to a notice board. ‘That one looks about right for us and the boys,’ he said a little louder as the two lovers walked on towards the car park.

  Deckman held his wife’s hand tighter as he spoke. ‘Jens, you have just rubbed shoulders with the woman who has become our number one suspect for possibly three murders, including that of Victoria Campbell. Despite her beauty and her expensive clothes, this lady is violent in the extreme.’

  She shivered at the thought. ‘It’s unnerving. The likeness is incredible. It could be Victoria. It is Victoria,’ said Jenny Deckman. ‘And to believe she could have been responsible for such horrific crimes. You had better take me somewhere for a drink, Terry. I’m in shock.’

  *

  ‘Don’t ask me why, Jens, but now I’ve seen her, and Rawston, I’m beginning to feel more comfortable about the case. What I don’t have is the evidence I need for Michael’s release.’ He raised his glass. ‘Jens, to a good piece of lunchtime surveillance work.’ Their glasses clinked as Deckman’s mobile began vibrating its way across the table.

  He checked who was calling. ‘Hi, Colin, I’m dining with a beautiful lady so whatever it is, it had better be good.’

  ‘It might not be, although it could be, but I hope it isn’t.’

  ‘Good grief, man, you’re talking riddles. What have you got?’

  ‘Guv, I’m real sorry to disturb you, but I’ve just been informed there is a man at the offices of The Draycliffe Argus confessing to the murder of both our girls. He’s speaking with the editor at this moment, giving her a full report, after which he says he wants to be arrested and charged.’

  ‘I don’t believe it, Colin, it cannot possibly be true. I’m going straight over, see you there.’ Deckman cleared the phone and looked at Jenny. ‘What’s next, I wonder? Now we have a man at The Argus claiming responsibility for the two murders.’

  ‘Is it not possible, darling?’

  ‘No, Jens. Well, only if Colin
and I are leaning against the wrong lamp-post. And it better not be right, for Michael Campbell’s sake. Sorry, darling, lunch is over, it’s time to go home.’

  *

  ‘And tell me, Mr Becketts,’ asked the editor of The Argus . ‘Why did you consider it necessary to kill these two women?’

  ‘I’m only doing the work of the police. They should be clearing our streets of this kind of filth. As they appear unable then someone else has to. I have taken on that responsibility and I now hope the true situation will be brought to the public of our town. The police must be forced to take appropriate action before it’s too late and Draycliffe becomes one large bawdy-house. And now will you hand me over to the police, please.’

  Becketts was led away by DS Fraser while Deckman spoke to the editor.

  ‘Mary, a word of advice. It all sounds good, but be careful about what you print. I suggest your article is without name and, of course, photograph and just say that a man is being interviewed.

  ‘Do I take it that you are not impressed with this confession?’

  ‘I’m not. There is, of course, a chance he is telling the truth, but we are following leads that don’t include our friend, Becketts. Just be careful what you say and how you say it and don’t quote anything I have said, including the fact we are following leads.’

  ‘I get the message, Terry, you believe that he could be a hoaxer?’

  ‘I’m not saying that for sure, but I believe there is a pretty good chance. We’ll see within the next couple of days. Just take note of what I have said, Mary, and no mention of my thoughts. Okay?’

  Deckman knew just about anyone could commit an assault or even murder given the right amount of provocation, but this man had not done what he had admitted to. Or had he? Deckman could not be sure anymore, he could not trust his own judgement.

  Becketts stood five feet ten or eleven, with the correct weight for his height. Well spoken, educated and smartly dressed with a navy blue double breasted suit, white shirt and red silk tie. The red carnation in his button hole would have been a good finishing touch under different circumstances but the brown brogues were a mistake. Although he had chain smoked his way through six cigarettes during his confession, there was no sign of nicotine staining on his fingers to confirm it was habitual. He had inhaled each intake deeply and savoured it before throwing his head back and allowing the smoke to escape through his nostrils. Deckman was convinced he was acting. He had to be.